


and in the snow the footsteps marked

by BeautifulSoup



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: A soupçon of angst, Christmas Fluff, F/F, Family Bonding, Family Fluff, Gift Exchange, Party Games, Post-Canon, but only to make the fluff sweeter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:46:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28428021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulSoup/pseuds/BeautifulSoup
Summary: It was Arabella, she knew, who pressed to keep the night back, who set so many lights when Emma was abroad in order to guide her home.Winter in Great Hitherden. Lady Pole returns home to find a fuller house than she had left. She does not mind.
Relationships: Emma Pole/Arabella Strange
Comments: 16
Kudos: 9
Collections: JSAMN New Year's fanfiction exchange





	and in the snow the footsteps marked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ilthit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilthit/gifts).



> Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, [Ilthit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilthit/pseuds/Ilthit)! Here is your gift!
> 
> Thank you for giving such a range of prompts for me to work from! I decided to go with _"Magic Regency fairytale Christmas kinda thing with fluff and SNOW and people being their best selves for a day and maybe a snowball fight; YOU KNOW THE KINDA THING just kill me with maple syrup, I'm begging you / A fic in which Christmas has little significance to the plot but happens to be occurring? That would also work!"_ , but perhaps with slightly less magic and syrup than you had imagined. I did try for outright fluff and this is what happened - still, I hope you like it! <3

The snow was still drifting down, although some gaps appeared in the clouds, lacelike, and the sunlight spilled through golden as sweet wine.

It was calm, here.

She was calm, here.

So many winters she had spent nearby, yet never (or so it felt) in those early years had she strayed beyond the walls of the house. She could barely see it from where she stood, now: just the peak of a roof slipping quickly away to hide behind a rise, the drive disguised as a river glinting in the low sun when it was not hidden behind trees.

This was not the soaring, lonely country around Starecross – it was too placid for that, but there were unexpected rises and hidden corners in the tracks that whisked one up until one felt far removed from the small society of Great Hitherden, even at a rather small distance.

Despite the snow (only a few inches deep, falling more and more lightly each moment), her boots were stout enough and her skirts were pulled up out of the way enough for the walk to be no great difficulty. Indeed, she liked a bit of difficulty. For so many years she had been trapped in a fog of exhausted helplessness that the strain in her thighs, the ache in her feet earned by effort in the fresh air of her own world, felt like a purifying fire: her bones alight and burning off the toxic influence of Faerie, of the never-mentioned illness that had seen her there in the first place.

She had spent too long sitting in chairs and on sofas, she wanted now to _move_ , to work out the restlessness before it banked too high. Anything but dancing.

She walked and walked, passing the huddled, miserable sheep crowded in the shelter of the hedgerows, and watched as the sun passed its peak and began its egret-like dive to the horizon, too swift and sudden by half. Soon the shadows would darken and the candles would be lit to cast their little illuminations in the house that was too big for two women, but was far enough away from society to be a comfort.

The morning had been cold, the afternoon warmer, but now that the sun was setting there was a puckishness to the air, pinching her cheeks and making her eyes water as she turned a corner to meet an unexpected wind.

The house winked at her as she rounded the final corner: bright and shining as a beacon.

Too many rooms were illuminated for the number of inhabitants in the great house: the whole front glinting out through the darkness, catching on the snow piled on the lawn and the windowsills and making it seem as though the house was besieged by a number of great sleeping yellow cats, all curled up wherever they could find purchase.

It was Arabella, she knew, who pressed to keep the night back, who set so many lights when Emma was abroad in order to guide her home. It made Emma smile to herself, a little wryly, a little fondly.

As if she were likely to get lost, when she was attached to that home by such a steady thread. She felt the pull of it now: not a tug (there was nothing sharp about it) but a slow, building ache beneath her breastbone that said to her, “ _Come back”_. It did not ease with proximity, but grew and grew in anticipation until, by the time she stood dwarfed in the shadow of her childhood home, it was almost unbearable. She stood there a moment longer just to bear it, to revel in feeling something that was neither rage nor despair. That, too, was becoming easier.

It was with a curious gladness that she stepped through the door into the warmth of the house.

A peal of laughter reached her from an unseen room, and with it the ache in her eased, bit by bit, like a bird settling its feathers to roost.

Footsteps brushed against the carpet, a muffled word uttered in an apologetic tone, the click of an opening door.

“Oh!” Bell sighed, as if that ache had been building in her, too, and had only been relieved by the sight of Emma’s muddied person. After a moment of stillness, she swept forward and brought her hands to the neck of Emma’s fur-lined pelisse. “I had begun to worry.” Nimble fingers unfastened the buttons. “If you had been much longer I would have sent out Richard and James.”

“You needn’t,” Emma said, feeling the smile build behind her eyes.

Pelisse unbuttoned, Arabella pressed her hand to the centre of Emma’s chest, warm and firm above the muslin of her chemisette, and finally looked up. In the candlelight, her eyes were very dark. Emma was very aware of her heartbeat beneath that touch, strong and never more certain. She brought her own hand, cold as it was even within its glove, to rest atop Arabella’s, smiled as she gasped and laughed at the chill of it.

“Henry has come,” said Bell, voice soft, “with his family.” Her smile grew – a slow and wicked thing – until her eyes crinkled. “I have invited them to stay for dinner.”

Emma sighed and rolled her eyes, not so much out of irritation than out of habit. She had not understood Henry, at first: so stiff and well-starched in his wig and his stock and his wide-brimmed hat, so far from Arabella’s songbird quickness. The unease on each side had taken some time to abate: Henry had seemed perturbed by Emma (although she well could imagine why her simply _being_ would disconcert a man of God) and swamped in a strange ungrief for his returned sister; Emma was distrustful of people generally and men in particular.

Arabella, though, was fond of her brother, and in the years since their move to Great Hitherden time and familiarity had moved Emma past that initial discomfort. She had watched his work in the parish, overheard his conversations with Arabella, seen his drive to aid Arabella in her attempts to clear Jonathan’s name and undo the machinations of Norrell. He had even spoken with Emma herself about her experiences, and not in the badly camouflaged wonder that magicians tended to speak to her (sympathetic, yes, but with the _magic_ as the most important thing rather than the intentions behind it); he had been horrified, and that in itself had been a comfort, to know that the horror had not been hers alone.

Those first meetings, although years ago, still formed the basis of their interactions in performance, and Emma found good fun in winding Arabella up in this well-rehearsed way. It helped that she had known Sophronia as a girl – only a little, and generally on the receiving end of a charitable visit (for, although certainly not _poor_ , the young Miss Wintertowne had never been in good health and had been a perfect target for a young lady wishing to exercise her goodwill) – and had been passingly fond of her, and was glad to see Miss Watkins settled and what seemed to be happy.

Henry’s presence was, indeed, a relief at times: with other visitors, talk of magic was unavoidable (no matter how much certain gentlemen might try to stay their tongues on the subject out of consideration, she had found that excitement and wine inevitably drew it out). With Henry there was no chance of such a subject coming up, and Emma was always glad to hear the happenings of the parish, or the news from Shropshire shared by brother and sister from various sources. It was not exciting, but Emma had had her fill of excitement and was happy to hear these small parochial scandals.

With another too-clever smile, Arabella quickly kissed her cheek and stepped away, turning back to the parlour where the family was presumably gathered and, sure enough, now that Emma had the ability to see and hear beyond Bell’s presence, she could hear the high, childish voices of the young Woodhopes.

It was delightful, always, to see Arabella with her niece and nephew (a stout no-nonsense girl of ten whom Arabella claimed was exactly like Henry as a boy, and a happy, clever boy of eight who bore more than a passing resemblance of character to Arabella herself).

Emma was, herself, nervous of children: her mother having kept her away from others of her age due to her delicate constitution in her youth, and she having had no reason for associating with them after… _after_. But the solidity of the baby Harriett had been reassuring, a few years later the cheerfulness of little Henry contagious, and her mind had been put at rest, at least in these two specific cases. She had surprised herself in being pleased to see the children (certainly more pleased than she was to see Henry, generally, though that was in truth no easily-mendable fault of his).

And so, taking a breath, removing her hat and gloves, and fixing her expression, she stepped into the atmosphere of festivity.

Arabella had certainly been busy while Emma had been on her walk: the sideboard was laden with sweetmeats and fruit, every candle in every sconce burning cheerily, the fire blazing merrily. The light caught on the candied fruit and gilded gingerbreads, on the holly berries and red ribbons festooning the fireplace and windowsills. There was a great scent of orange and cloves from the pomander balls hanging by the fire.

As Emma entered, the Woodhopes rose as one to greet her: the adults with an awkward sort of familiar deference and hastily hidden aghast look at her muddy dress, the children with great grins as they ran to her. Harriett gave a hurried and clumsy curtsey, little Henry a brief bow, and then they were both talking at once. They chattered excitedly, ignoring their mother’s pleas for them to speak one at a time, Henry holding out a perfect spray of holly he had found on a walk for her to admire, Harriett an abandoned bird’s nest exposed by the bare hedgerows, a fragment of pale blue speckled shell still caught in the moss, from which Emma was able to declare the nest a blackbird’s, to Harriett’s visible joy.

She asked about their discoveries, answered their questions about her walk and the things she had seen. She took from her pocket the two wooden soldiers she had picked up in the village at the start of her walk. Their delighted gasps and wonderstruck expressions warmed the room, made the candles burn a little brighter.

Throughout, Emma was aware of Arabella watching her with something between curiosity and amusement. Emma would pause in her story about the kitten she had owned as a girl to catch dark eyes glancing away; she would parry a thrust of Henry’s stick with her own, and hear Arabella’s familiar laugh, would feel it grow in her breast until Emma was laughing, too, as little Henry made it past her defences and dealt a fatal blow to her hip, whereupon she dutifully sank to the floor grasping at her chest. She recovered swiftly from the injury and watched in delight as Harriett convinced Arabella to make a fourth for whist, where under Mr Woodhope’s stern eye they played for sugarplums until the children grinned behind heaping piles of the sweets, the women empty handed.

Harriett was, Emma knew, disappointed that there was no harpsichord in the house on which she could entertain them. It was a frustration both children must feel quite deeply, but they never expressed it within earshot, and Emma was grateful to Henry and Sophronia for whatever they told the children about Lady Pole’s strangeness, about their aunt’s sudden dark moods. It was enough for Emma to be able to warn the little ones about the pathways in the woods which occasionally made her hackles raise, to ensure they had always something red about them, to get them to promise never to give their names to a stranger. The children accepted these oddities, these warnings and unmusical evenings, with serious nods and promises, and moments later would be jolly and grasping her hand to play this game or that, and Emma was able, for an afternoon or an evening, to turn her thoughts away from those dark places and to banish the memory of that lonely fife and drum.

The evening raced away, and by the time dinner was almost finished – the table littered with empty dishes which added to the glittering light – the adults had warmed to conversation with each other as the children nodded sleepily in their seats.

As Arabella and Mrs Woodhope cooed over the drowsing children and Mr Woodhope described to her the sermon he had planned for Christmas morning, Emma became aware of a figure standing close behind her.

“My Lady,” Richard said in her ear, “the weather has turned, shall we make up the guest rooms?”

Emma stood and moved to the window, and indeed she could hear the wind gusting more forcefully against the glass. Beyond the curtains, thick flakes of snow were falling heavily, no longer the gentle dusting of the afternoon.

“I think you had better, Richard.” She turned to speak to Henry. “Apologies, Mr Woodhope, but I cannot possibly let you travel back to the parsonage in this weather – you all must stay the night. The rooms are being readied as we speak.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Henry, coming to stand beside her at the window. “We could not possibly impose on your – I say!” The snow was banking swiftly and steadily against the windowsill.

“Henry I must insist,” Arabella said, suddenly over Emma’s shoulder, her hand a ghost on Emma’s back. “You cannot think of forcing Sophronia and the children out in that!” She gave a disbelieving shake of the head. “No, there is plenty of room here. You will stay, will you not, sister?”

Mrs Woodhope – a wonderfully sensible person – decried the idea of travelling in such a blizzard, and thus the matter was decided. The children were carried, sleeping, to the nursery (unused since Emma’s own childhood, but cheerful and well-aired), and the elder Woodhopes dispatched to the Blue Room with Arabella as their guide.

In the sudden quiet of the house, Emma made her way to her bedchamber to make her solitary toilet. The candle cast a small light, the fireplace a brighter glow. There were no mirrors in the room (she could never shake the idea that there was someone watching her from the other side), but she washed her face in the basin and removed the pins from her hair, one by one, as she gazed into the fire. It was a strange sort of silence, after the boisterous jollity of the parlour, and she felt that itch within her once more to move. She resisted, and donned her nightgown, hoping to distract her wandering mind with some reading.

She had been in bed some time (attempting to read a new pamphlet sent to her by Mr Segundus but failing due to lack of interest and of light) when Arabella appeared, bringing with her a candlestick. Something about the light from the candle and the mere fact of Arabella’s presence brightened the room immeasurably – what had seemed dim and shadowed was now golden and shining.

Emma knew she was… if not _broken_ , then in a definite state of disrepair. All across her were cracks and ravines. They could not be healed; she did not think that she particularly _wanted_ them to be healed, uncomfortable as they could be.

But in this room, brimming with golden light, she could feel the soft, cool snow of Arabella’s care falling on her, settling and filling those empty spaces and rendering her sharp edges something smooth and soft.

In the darkness of their bedchamber, Arabella ran her hands over her work of the evening, and far from melting under such warmth, the repairs solidified. Arabella’s lips on her ear, on her neck, her breath in her hair, the warmth of her pressed to Emma’s back, her thigh pressed between Emma’s legs as she murmured sweet nonsense in her ear, all served to envelop her, to wrap her safe from the world and the shadows outside the windows.

She turned her head, blindly grasping for Arabella’s hair as she ached for a kiss, Arabella’s clever fingers building and banking that slick heat within her, growing and growing until – like that homesick ache that had brought her back that afternoon – it reached the end of its tether and spun free, leaving her breathless and uneven, rattling like a spinning top reaching the end of its balance as Bell whispered, “ _Oh_ , my dear, yes, yes.”

Sleep descended, and although it came with its habitual jolt of panic, Emma felt more stable, more rooted. Arabella was soft and solid against her back, her voice gentle as she told stories of the snowball fights she and Henry used to have with Jonathan as children in Clun. She told of how the children had woken a little as they had been carried to their beds, and when the situation had been explained to them had asked for a similar fight in the morning. Emma laughed and agreed, there were some warm clothes somewhere in the house that may fit them, she was sure.

It was a distraction, Emma knew, to occupy her attention and let her drift to sleep, but it worked.

That night, she did not dream. This was always a blessing.

The morning dawned bright and gleaming. Emma woke to the vague impression of _snow_ , aware of that peculiar quality of light reflected from the white-blanketed land and through the bedchamber curtains. There was no sound of rattling windows or howling winds. All was still and quiet.

From below she heard the high, excited voices of the children.

Arabella pressed a smile to her nape, brought a warm hand to her belly.

“You had best wrap up warm, my dear,” she murmured against Emma’s skin.

Emma smiled, turned in Arabella’s arms, and kissed her with all the warmth she felt within her.


End file.
